


The Devil, the God, and the Magnolia

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Category: Naruto
Genre: Adultery, Corruption, Deception, Ego, F/M, Friendship, Gen, God Complex, Infidelity, Language of Flowers, Loss of Trust, Love, Love Triangles, Loyalty, Marriage, Mind Games, Mistakes, Multi, Power Dynamics, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secrets, Seduction, Sneakiness, Spies & Secret Agents, Strategy & Tactics, Strong Female Characters, Traps, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One well-placed and clever kunoichi can bring down an empire. A politician and a kunoichi... the worst kind. None of them knew her at all, it seemed. </p><p>Founders Era: A man becomes the devil, a god just wants a flower, and a flower blooms for the sun alone.</p><p>Three-shot, one for each POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Man Becomes the Devil

“You’re a conqueror, Madara, not a politician. Waiting for scraps isn’t you. You need to take what you want, or die trying.”

* * *

He remembered the moment she had joined the Senju camp because she had looked so out of place. He was fighting the dark haired, tan-skinned, stony-faced, dark eyed Senju. His eyes had sought out Hashirama before his mind even knew what he was doing. He was always there, that pained yet determined look on his face. They would fight; they always fought… but Hashirama hated it just as much as he did. And then, one day, she was just there. She had the composure of royalty, pale skin, and exotic red hair, beautifully wrapped in silks. He didn’t know when she’d joined up with his enemies, but he noticed. Judging by the way she stayed close to his rival, gaze flickering in his direction every so often, Madara assumed they were either married or planning it.

 _Well_ … he thought _. Good for him._ And he’d meant it, too.

His father had seen her, too. “Beware the harpy,” he murmured, his gruff voice speaking from experience. “Women are the most dangerous weapon,” he continued. “An army alone. They’ll lure you in with their smiles and their pretty hair, and stab you in the belly when your pants are down. One well-placed and clever kunoichi can bring down an empire.”

He never forgot.

* * *

The next time he had seen her was upon the rooftop of the “castle” that his friend had built just for her. He could tell from one brief glance that she hated Madara all the way through to his allegedly rotten core. She hid it well; she’d clearly had a lot of practice. It made Madara wonder if Hashirama knew the depth of his wife’s deceit. _If she can hide her hatred so easily, what else is she hiding?_ He kept his thoughts to himself, though. Hashirama was clearly smitten with the woman. It was not Madara’s business to advise his friend on which woman was right for him.

She was clever. He could see it in the secrets of her eyes and her iron posture. Straight backs came with politics, and politics was the game of deception. A kunoichi and a politician… the worst kind.

* * *

Things hadn’t been going his way at all. Tobirama had thwarted his every effort to have a say in the foundation of their village, even going so far as to ‘forget’ to tell him when they were meeting. Hashirama was working on some secret project with his wife—probably ensuring the wench’s stake in their future by whelping a brat—and seemed to have forgotten he even existed. He felt like a beast in a cage on the Uchiha grounds; it was a pretty, decorated little box to store him in. Why he ever thought this would work escaped him now. The Uchiha would never be trusted.

He assumed she was behind the first assassination attempt. No one in the world could want him dead more than Uzumaki Mito. With Hashirama coiled around her elegant fingers, Madara was just in her way. With Madara dead, she had the Senju and Uchiha and a palace of magical trees. Soon, their little village would be the world’s strongest power, and Madara was nothing to that but a threat to her whims. The would-be assassin kunoichi was a battle bred, smoke-eyed Senju captain that had, on more than one occasion, attempted to bury steel in his guts during the warring states period. She’d come to the party in Uchiha black and red, the first time he’d ever recalled seeing her in a dress, and bent her pretty neck up to kiss him. It was so laughably obvious that he’d cursed himself for letting her get so close.

It had happened at the one year anniversary of their little peace truce. He’d been lonely and miserable that night, and drunk way too much sake, but by the end of it, he was almost happy. Surrounded by laughing, smiling, dancing, whimsical Senju with lust in their eyes for lovers old and new, he could almost believe that he belonged here. Mito’s warm smile was a gift for everyone, even him. Maybe peace wasn’t such an impossibility after all. After enough sake made the colors blur together, he’d followed the hard warrior witch into the hallway, thinking she looked more like a dream than a nightmare, at least tonight. If he could find even a moment’s happiness with his friend’s people, the hatchet would be buried forever. If he only gave it a chance…

As the space between them closed, he could smell the reflection of his liquored breath… but he couldn’t smell hers…

...

...

...

Too close. _Beware the harpy._ He’d almost forgotten.

* * *

When he received Mito’s gift, he experienced a wide range of misgivings. His first instinct was that it was a trap. A flower in a box, from Hashirama’s wife? It was so blatantly suspicious that it made him believe perhaps that it wasn’t a trap. Then, his foolish mind conjured up the progression of that hate-filled stare to the warm smile at the anniversary party, and he thought, _Well_ …

He’d held onto it for a few days, pondering what she meant by it. The only time he’d seen her after that was in passing, but her cool grace was tempered by the presence of her husband. She did thank him, though, for saving his life. That was something, wasn’t it?

A saffron lily. The boy’s mother saw him toying with it and winked at him. “Lucky you,” she crooned. “That flower is the symbol of passion. Do I know her?”

He shook his head and pocketed the damned thing. Apparently, none of them knew her.

* * *

Numb, he climbed the stairs to his friend’s love nest, going over all the reasons why he shouldn’t. _Beware the harpy_ , his father’s voice echoed. _A kunoichi can bring down an empire_. He knew he had not imagined her hatred. His fingers curled tightly around the flower. Had he imagined her smile, though? Would she dare to risk everything to send him an invitation as brazen and dangerous as this one? He was drawn by the need to know. Was this some kind of joke, to her, or did she mean what she implied?

He dropped the lily on the floor and locked his sights on her face. One twitch, one grimace, any hint that she was playing him, and he would leave. That’s what he told himself. _Why am I here?_

Because it was Mito, and in her serenity and the dark places hiding in her eyes, he felt an echo of ambition that resonated with him.

“You dare to send me a token of regard?” He crossed his arms, as immovable as she, and glared.

“You dare to answer. You know he isn’t home. You probably deduced that he’d be away for several hours at least, in fact. You aren’t a fool,” she finished.

He didn’t deny it because it was true. Hashirama was playing with the bijuu that this woman had captured for him. “What makes you think I came to answer it?” She didn’t answer. Her chin lifted, matching him stare for stare. His presence was the answer to that question, so he wisely avoided voicing it. “Hn,” he laughed. “Why would you think I’d be interested?”

“A hunch,” she offered with a delicate shrug. “Or maybe I just hoped that you would be.”

It sounded like a lie (it _had to be_ a lie)… but what if it wasn’t? “I doubt it. You hate me.”

“I don’t.” He tilted his head slightly and gave her a look. “Maybe I wanted you to think that.”

“Why would you want me to think that if you wanted me to be interested?” he argued, eyes narrowing.

“Obviously. If you thought I hated you, then so would my husband. Now no one will find our conduct suspect. Many have forgotten by now, but I was trained as a kunoichi. I have all the tools I need to get exactly what I want.” Ahh, so there it was. _Crafty_.

What she was saying made a sick kind of sense. Hashirama was a born leader; he had the right friends, insurmountable power, and the words that accidentally tumbled out of his mouth were always the exact right ones. He was nothing like Madara, and that was why he had succeeded in every area that Madara had failed. Of course Mito had married him; he was the doorway to world domination. His eyebrow raised a fraction again. “And what do you want, Mito?”

She didn't even flinch. “All nine of the bijuu, the Senju… and the Uchiha. I mean to rule this little world we’ve created. I’m close to achieving true peace.” With all the bijuu to hang over their heads, no one would dare to even argue over _lunch_ , nevermind war.

He’d guessed that, but to hear her say it wasn’t as pleasant as he thought it might be. Hashirama had been a fool, after all. His glower darkened. He’d be damned if he was handing over his clan to this woman. “What you want is impossible.”

“Is it?” she challenged coyly.

He took a deep breath, exhaled. “You have four of the beasts. If you want the other five, get them yourself. You already have the Senju. And if your plan is to wrest my clan away from me, my only words to you are this—“ He leaned forward and sneered. “Good luck.” He spun on his heel to leave.

Her voice was warm honey, alluring, addicting, when she spoke. “I don’t mean to take your clan. Just your clan leader.” He stopped, rooted to the spot by a strange power that forced him to hear whatever she’d say next. “Tell me who _you_ think should be the leader of this village.”

The sound of her voice lanced him. What she spoke was a deep betrayal of her husband. She wouldn’t dare to say such things unless she was serious… Perhaps he had underestimated the level of her ambition. His Sharingan activated on instinct. Maybe he should just kill her now before any more wicked words poured out of the temptress’ mouth.  

She was smiling. “Ah, I see you agree with me, at last. You want what he has. The love of the people, the control of the village, the Lady of the Uzumaki clan and the tailed beasts that she carries, the power of the Mokuton…”

As she spoke, he felt a twist in his gut. Each admission hit his ears like a benediction, for they were all thoughts—secretly guarded, never spoken—that he had had himself. He had never been able to play the sycophant to earn the love of people who, in his opinion, were so far beneath him that one word with them was a waste of his precious time. He had hoped to be revered as the world’s protector, but since that was apparently never going to happen, he had accepted the possibility that he might have to serve the people as merely an advisor to Hashirama, and even that connection was dissolving, ripped from his hands by Tobirama, the man who had killed his little brother. His fingers itched for want of a knife, simply for thinking his name.

And too, the Mokuton was _beautiful_ , breathtaking, the power to create, where he had only ever possessed the power to destroy. Envy was a rot. You’d have to be a fool not to desire it.

And Mito… Uzumaki Mito was the key to it all. If her feelings were true, if her ambitions were as strong as his, there was a way to steal the Mokuton, and Hashirama would never guess until it was too late.

The dangerous words kept coming, stroking a bruised ego and stoking a guttering fire of passion and promise. Clever, even, that she had sent the lily of passion instead of the rose of love. She wasn’t attempting to appeal to his masculine senses at all. “No, It’s not that you want it. You crave it. You deserve it.” The word was a caress, sweet to his ears. “It was Uchiha Madara who should be the ruler, Senju Hashirama the pet.”

He moved, feeling his soul break free of his body, a man detached, like a malevolent ghost that had left its flesh behind. _Yes!_ his soul screamed. “This is a dangerous game you play, woman,” he hissed dangerously, now inches from her face.

She tilted her head. “Does danger frighten you now during our cheerful peace era? Are you so comfortable in my husband’s pretty cage?” The insult sent a nervous impulse through his hand, and he struck. Instead of weeping like a woman and cowering in fear, she met his eyes with fire and invitation. “You’re a conqueror, Madara,” she purred, “not a politician. Waiting for scraps isn’t you. You need to take what you want, or die trying.” She touched him.

She shouldn’t touch him. He moved her hands away, pinning them behind her back and pressing her against the wall. He didn’t trust her to move. Then, he moved in close. _Last chance, Madara,_ he thought. _Get out._ “This isn’t like you. You’re a noblewoman, a lady of the light.” He stroked her face, wondering even now if she was the lovely queen he’d first seen years ago or the vile, seducing kunoichi his father had warned him about. “Why?”

She touched her face to his. “Every woman of the light dreams of riding the feral winds of darkness.” With her breath upon his ear, she transformed into the living embodiment of Hashirama’s world. It was a world that he’d wanted for so long that it ached, ripping a deep hole in his gut that starved for power and affection.

 _Yes,_ he thought. _I do want this. I deserve this._

Hunger, instinct, and ambition fueled him forward. He lost his sense of self, of space and time, consuming what she dared to feed him. The world became a blur of red hair and creamy skin, of heat and desire. He was losing himself, and within he felt the sense that it was making him a better person, somehow.

“What is the meaning of this?”

...

...And then the dream evaporated. He retreated as quickly as possible, confused, drawing back from the edge of an abyss into which he hadn’t been aware he’d been falling. Mito dropped to the floor, adopting the expression of a woman wronged, holding her damaged face and pulling her clothing together. _What had just happened?_

He caught the eyes of Hashirama, cold, unreadable, boring into his core, judging him with all the furor of a god. Madara had never seen the expression before, and this from a man he’d known his whole life. They searched each other, trying to read the other’s heart and left wanting. This was a moment that none of them understood.

And that revelation told him everything. It was Mito’s plan all along, to pit the cofounders of the village against each other, probably to rid his influence from her husband once and for all. Hashirama was seeing a Madara that was a stranger, and likewise, so was he seeing an alien in his friend’s skin. Shocked, hurt, he glared down at her. Her cleverness and the depth of her contempt for him, that he’d force two friends against each other for her own vile agenda, tore the last root of goodness out of him. He felt it, like a worm of evil, burrowing into the ventricles of his heart and stretching out comfortably, finding plenty of empty, unfulfilled space there to call home.

 _I will never belong here,_ he thought bitterly as Hashirama shoved him roughly into the hallway, burning, terrifying, the embodiment of a god’s wrath. _I’m sorry_ , he thought helplessly. Voicing it would make no difference. Mito had won.

_A kunoichi can bring down an empire. Father was right._

 

 


	2. A God Just Wants a Flower

For once, being the heir to the Senju clan seemed to be a blessing instead of a curse, for it had brought her to him. Just being near her made him feel like a better man, but one that would never outshine her magnificence. He felt clumsy, but happy, around her. His feelings for her were so strong that they made him ache. There was nothing that she could ask that he could deny her, nothing she could do that would make him love her any less. She hadn’t loved him when they married, but he accepted that. She thought she was being terribly clever, and he loved her keen intelligence, so he let her believe it.

All he could do was hope that she would love him in time. He’d spend his whole life cultivating that love, if need be. After all, coaxing new life from tightly guarded seeds was his specialty, and his patience was unsurpassed.

* * *

“What is it?” he had asked, plucking at the delicate blossom that now decorated his armor. The happy blue petals made him feel more like himself, and less like the killer he was painted to be. A happy sigh threatened to escape him. Here was someone who understood that he wanted to be so much more than just a general, wanted for more than his ability to flatten armies and tear up the land.

“Just a pretty flower. Because I love you.” It was the first time she had said that in their eight years of marriage.

He shook his head. It wasn’t good enough. Small and insignificant it might seem, but its value was more beautiful than just a decoration, and he craved understanding. “What is its name? What is its meaning?”

“It’s a bluebell. It’s to signify that two hearts are linked as one.”

Hundreds of battles. Thousands, more like. So many lives ended, so many battles decided, so many feathers in his unwanted cap.

...

...

There had never been a sweeter victory.

* * *

Tobirama’s hand fell on his shoulder like a warhammer. “Mito,” he whispered urgently.

His first thought was for her safety. He hardly remembered resealing the four bijuu he’d been practicing on, but he vaguely recalled tucking the scrolls back into his pockets somewhere. She was in trouble.

He sprinted his way back home, wishing he had Tobirama’s ability or that Mito had a seal, or something, anything, to get to her faster. _Who could want to hurt Mito?_ He wondered, confused. She was the sweetest, most interesting woman in existence, a goddess of grace among crudely made men. He leapt up the steps three at a time, heart pounding, crafting a thousand strategies to kill whoever it was that threatened her. He prepared himself for anything.

He chucked the door inward, ready for a war, holding enough chakra to disintegrate a nation. Instead, he saw the tangled black mane of Madara and the blood red of his armor. That wasn’t right. _Where is Mito?_ Then there was a flash of bright red and a whimper of fear, and his senses sizzled with alarm. At first, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, frozen to the spot and bearing witness to a scene that should not have been possible. _No,_ he denied, denied, denied. _Just… no!_ “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, the words hardly registering above a whisper.

Mito fell, Madara straightened, and the two men stared each other down. He tried and failed to ignore the memory of the flash of uncurling fingers around her thighs. _How could you?_ he wanted to ask. This man was his friend, his brother! He searched his face, looking for any readable expression at all. Regret? Satisfaction? Passion? Hate? _Anything_. Instead, he saw only an unreadable mask, a stranger’s face, and one without apology or explanation. He was so thrown off, he didn’t even know if he was pissed off or hurt or just plain stunned.

No one moved.

Madara was the first to break. The distortion of the atmosphere as his presence sauntered through it was enough to break Hashirama from his thrall. The first emotion he felt was rage, pure and blinding and consuming. It was an ugly feeling, but he welcomed it. It was better than the hurt. Anything but that. He focused it on the only thing in the room he wanted to hurt and lashed out at the man who had masqueraded as his friend. What passed between them next was more animal than man. It was the only time in his life he could recall lashing out in anger. They’d need to settle this completely, and soon, but right now Madara needed to be out of Hashirama’s sight. He needed to think. “Wait for me outside,” he hissed.

Back at the scene of betrayal, Mito was still in a small, frightened heap on the floor. The rage fled, and his earlier concern returned en force, enveloping him in a purposeful calm serenity. She looked so young and scared like that, and he found himself only hoping that his outburst had nothing to do with it. It was unfair of him to blame her; Madara was monstrously strong, and he had the Sharingan besides. It would be easy enough to bewitch her into submission. She appeared bewildered and afraid, and all he wanted to do was protect her. “Are you okay?” She nodded, and he caught a glimpse of a red welt. _He didn’t_ …? His fingers pressed under her chin, lifting her face to his. He sucked in a breath as he examined it, white hot wrath threatening to blind him. _I'll kill him,_ the thought formed before he could craft any logic. “He hit you?” She nodded again. Worry bled from him as air, escaping his lungs in a painful gust. “Can you talk about it?” She shook her head.

“I’ll take the rest of the day off,” he said finally. “I’ll go deal with him, and then I’ll come right home, okay?” In truth, he had no idea how that confrontation would go, but Mito and Madara would never be left alone again, of that he was certain.

“Okay.” The melodic quality of her voice was dead. She sounded small, and lost, and a visceral need to end that now became less of a desire and all of an urgent need.

He frowned. Perhaps she just didn’t want to be alone? “Do you need me to stay?” he asked with concern.

She smiled, and he knew it was her attempt to be strong, so that he’d feel better and could do what he must. “I’ll be all right.” He respected her for it, though. If she wanted to try to deal with her anguish alone, he would retreat and let her. He had something else to deal with anyway. How many times had she warned him about Madara? How many times had he ignored her paralyzing fears? Inwardly, he cursed himself.

He had been blind, after all.

* * *

On his way out, he stopped to pick up what he thought was an accidentally discarded piece of clothing or trash, left in the middle of the floor. It was a flower of some kind, cruelly crushed. Curious, that it should find its way onto his floor on this most unfortunate of days. He gently forced open the petals, racking his brain for its name, recalling a different one.

“It’s a bluebell. It’s to signify that two hearts are linked as one.”

Despite his unique connection with nature, Hashirama had spent little time understanding flowers, their uses, and their meanings. After the bluebell, though, he put forth considerable effort to change that. Flowers were a topic that Mito cared about. He’d seen artistic bundles of them tucked into her things, little projects she’d likely made herself, probably packets of poetry written in a language he couldn’t comprehend. So he’d learned. The Yamanaka leader had taken his request very seriously and taught him everything he wished to know.

 _Saffron lily,_ he heard recited in his mind, feeling the sting of jealousy and a world of hurt at the revelation. _It means,_ “Passion,” he muttered tonelessly to the empty room, tears sliding down his cheeks.

Something within him died.

* * *

Madara was there the moment he exited. They still had no words for each other. “Not here,” Hashirama said, wisdom winning over wrath. A spectacle in public could undermine their achievements, and neither of them could abide that no matter what private drama seethed between them. It was a long and uncomfortable walk to Tobirama’s quarters. Why he’d chosen there escaped him; he’d been driven there by instinct alone, for his thoughts were a mess. Madara’s place was out of the question.

Unfortunately, Tobirama was there. Hashirama quickly decided he didn’t care. He dragged the Uchiha inside, slammed the door, and threw his ass into the nearest chair with the creak of tortured wood. “You’ve got one minute,” Hashirama snapped, arms crossing.

Tobirama blinked, confused. “What’s going on?”

“She started it,” Madara calmly said with a shrug, in a lot less than one minute.

“Started what?” Tobirama asked.

“I caught him attempting to rape my wife,” Hashirama growled, denying the alternative. Besides, even if… Madara had still _gone_ to her with ignoble intent.

Tobirama didn’t have much to say to that, but he did have a healthy glare for Madara, even healthier than usual. Madara didn’t even flinch when he’d said it, and when it became clear he wasn’t going to say aught else, Tobirama prompted him. “You don’t deny trying to rape Mito-chan?” he asked softly, a hairsbreadth away from snapping himself. It didn’t take much to make Tobirama want to murder Madara.

“I told you that she started it,” he repeated. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you with him here,” he said icily, referring to his brother.

The two Senju exchanged a look, and Tobirama left without a word. “Well?” Hashirama pressed.

“She invited me in,” Madara insisted. “She sent a lover’s token, lured me there, and offered herself to me.”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?” Hashirama spat bitterly. “I’ve known you for more than twenty years.” Madara just looked at him. Hashirama sighed, pressing his back against a wall and sliding down against it, feeling utterly worn out. “What am I supposed to believe?” he wondered aloud.

“Ask her,” Madara offered with an indifferent shrug. “You already know me.” Hard, cold eyes met hard, cold eyes. 

* * *

He’d been stabbed in battle more times than he could count. Pain had been nearly a constant, but betrayal was the sharpest knife of all, and it hurt in new places.

His sandals dangled over the cliff, heels drumming into the rock face. It crumbled dangerously—he was clearly too close to the edge—but it just seemed so damned unimportant.

_She started it. Ask her. You already know me._

He stared at the lily cradled in his palm. It was beautiful, and hated all the same. There could be no mistake; Madara had little use for flowers and their meanings, while Mito had made it a beloved hobby. The events all added up, even if he wanted to deny them himself. Mito had betrayed him.

Perhaps bluebells were liars, too.

How had he gotten to this point? Where had he gone wrong? Everything had been going so well… the village was built, and she had given him the sense that she was just as invested in the project as he was. When he’d built it for her, she’d actually shed tears! The hospital was there, shining and still empty for want of her love. She cleaved to him in their bed with all the fervor of a woman half her age, blushing and alive with desire. Frustration born of love and pain and everything between was a gnawing beast in his chest.

_Where’s my lily, Mito?_

Bitter tears fell hundreds of feet upon the castle he’d built for her, a place that would become the seat for the Hokage. It was upon that rooftop that all of them had stood, tense and excited for the groundbreaking of their lifelong dreams, when she’d wept with awe for the beauty of it all.

He couldn’t decide whose treachery was worse, his friend’s or his wife’s.

On the one hand, Madara may as well have been his brother. There were certain things that one just did not do to a brother, and laying with his wife certainly fell into that category. They’d bled together, cried together, fought with all the fury of battalions alone, both destroyed what each other held dear and apologized for it later by shaking hands and making peace. They’d conceived of this notion of one village, one peace together. There was no man in the world he trusted more than Madara, even Tobirama, for where Tobirama believed in him and supported his will, Madara agreed with him and understood his heart.

But Uzumaki Mito now ruled that heart, and without her he was a lost soul, forever wandering alone. He’d been alone before, but this was different. He’d walked the gardens of paradise with her, slept with her, brought new life into a world that, together, they sought to improve. She was his queen and his light, and she had brought him a new strength that he had never possessed. If he was, as they said, a god of Shinobi, it was only because she had filled him with a strange mystical energy that never seemed to run out.

 _Ah, marriage. The only war where one sleeps with the enemy._ The Umino clan leader had said that, just after the power of Uzumaki Mito’s words had convinced him to bring his clan to their nation, marrying their power into the Shinobi of this village forever.

...

_But I don’t want Mito to be the enemy._

* * *

Weeks passed, and still he couldn’t abide being in that place with her. The inches between them in bed might as well have been miles. He couldn’t sleep next to her. Every time he had tried, he’d ended up laying awake all night, and he could tell by the pattern of her breathing that she wasn’t sleeping either. He couldn’t touch her or accept anything closely resembling a smile. All of them became lies. She was a world apart, and he still didn’t even want to reach her.

Because every time he looked at her, all he saw was that moment with Madara positioned between her legs, ready to rape his world. And, too, there was the lily.

The village was remarkably quiet in the hours between midnight and dawn. At least no one whimpered with fear. _Might as well stay out tonight, too,_ he thought with a weak shrug, though he missed her.

...

He threw a bluebell over the cliff.

 

 


	3. A Magnolia Blooms for the Sun Alone

“I don’t want to be the Hokage,” he confessed.

She blinked. Had she misheard? “Why not? You’ve been Hokage in all but name since we began.”

His mood darkened even further. “I have lots of friends and family,” he said sadly. “I even still have a brother.” He laughed, a short, affectionately amused sound. “Even if he is a bit of a pain most of the time. But Madara… he doesn’t have anybody. I’m his only friend. Plus, he’s been acting a little odd lately. I think he’s unhappy. So…” He pressed his hands to the tabletop and met her eyes, his expression determined. She knew that look. It meant he would not have ‘no’ as an answer. When he set his mind to it, Hashirama was famously immovable. “I want Madara to be the Hokage, Mito.”

She blinked, dumbfounded. All of her worst nightmares were coming true. The devil they had failed to eliminate was soon to be their king. What would that make her husband? The devil’s plaything? What would that make her? She’d never be safe again! She had to take several deep breaths just to keep her composure. She had done a pretty good job of not being obvious about her hatred of her husband’s best friend for the better part of their marriage. Now was not the time to slip. “Do you think that’s wise? You said so yourself that you have lots of friends and family… you’re impossible not to love—“ he smiled to hear her say it, “—so maybe you’d be what’s best for the Village Hidden in the Leaves.”

He shook his head more firmly. “My mind is made up. I can still help in my own way.”

Panic set in. “What does Tobirama-nii-san say?” she asked helplessly.

He fixed her with an intense stare. “He will tell me not to, I feel it in my bones. But, Mito, if I am viewed as this village’s leader, and I want Madara to be its Hokage, then that will be what happens, and that’s all there is to it. I need your support, Mito. I don’t want there to be any strife between us.” When push came to shove, he was the alpha, and his word was law. She’d lost this round, and the results spelled disaster for them all.

This was wrong, so wrong. The wheels in her brain turned, trying to come up with another plausible argument to talk her husband out of this foolishness. ‘Because I just don’t like him’ didn’t seem like an acceptable answer. Neither had she told Hashirama that she knew Madara wanted the bijuu. Her hands were tied. The only way left to deal with this matter lay in secrecy. “Very well,” she said to him with a smile she couldn’t feel. “I trust you. If you think Madara is what is best for the Village Hidden in the Leaves, I won’t keep you from it.”

His smile was so bright with relief that she almost felt guilty for flirting with the idea of offing Madara. “I knew you’d understand.” He took a sip of his tea. “I love you, Uzumaki Mito.”

She raised her cup in a salute, already beginning to plan how to try to murder Madara this time. “I love you, too, Senju Hashirama.”

“I’ve got a meeting with Tobirama-nii-san and the new arrivals from the outlying clans,” he told her, setting down an empty teacup and rising. “And I expect I’ll be pretty busy over the next few days. If you need me, just send up a chakra flare. Nii-san will feel it, and I’ll come find you.”

“Okay,” she said with a demure smile. “I’ll miss you until you’re back,” she promised.

All of their assassination attempts had failed. Seduction didn’t work on Madara, and he was far too powerful and dangerous to take in a fight. They had failed, but they were learning. As the reports funneled their way back to her, she was compiling the information that she needed to get to him. It was time for a more drastic approach. 

* * *

He didn’t bother knocking. Uchiha Madara, as a clan leader and Hashirama’s closest friend, observed all the proper protocol regarding manners and appropriate behaviors… except when he didn’t. The door pushed in, his silhouette blocking out the hallway. She reached for her chakra with a purpose, seemingly out of panic. She surmised she had about fifteen minutes at most. “I got your message,” he offered tonelessly, crushing the blossom in his palm and dropping it onto the floor as he stepped into the room, not waiting for an invitation. His eyes never left hers as he shut the door behind. All that stood between them was the low wooden table. Mito’s home had never felt so small. His presence on her threshold charged the air between them. Every breath she took carried with it the sobriety that it might be her last.

It was just the two of them, alone. She was certain that he knew how inappropriate that was, but if he cared about that he kept it to himself. He stared at her, expressionless, the black of his eyes boring into her soul so intensely that she wanted to look away. She couldn’t, though, not if she was going to be successful. This mission was a particularly difficult one; she had had no indication of when he would arrive. She’d merely sent the message to him, disguised as a saffron lily, and forced him to decode it. He was a devil, but he wasn’t an idiot. Sending him a gift at all had been strange, and he’d probably looked at it from every angle. Obviously, he’d arrived at the proper conclusion, and despite every suspicion as to her motives, he had come.

Now that he was here, it was time to transform. In one quick, violent shove, she switched off the conduit of her emotions. The time for questions and doubts was over. Either she was doing this or she wasn’t. “And?” she probed. Feminine sweetness was not Madara’s cup of tea; The assassins had proven that that course of action was a path toward failure. She stood, unmoving, not willing to make a play for either chair, wall, or bed. This would be a battle of words, not of bodies, a mission of the highest risk, one that promised the highest reward. It was only appropriate that she should be the one to do this, as the leader of their covert squad.

The battle between the Magnolia and the Devil began.

* * *

He stalked toward her, his strides long and powerful, until he was a shadow over her upturned face, his eyes a deadly shade of crimson and unreadable. She backed up a couple of steps, feeling the presence of the wall behind her blocking her exit. He was testing her, she understood as he invaded her personal space. He searched for the trick, but found none. “This is a dangerous game you play, woman,” he hissed dangerously.

She tilted her head. “Does danger frighten you now during our cheerful peace era? Are you so comfortable in my husband’s pretty cage?” She reeled, the world spinning, her face stinging. It took her a moment to register that he had struck her. Her chakra flared again. One hand went to the right side of her face unconsciously. She had expected physical abuse; it was Madara after all. She heaved a deep breath and raised her face to his eyes, defiantly ignoring the pain. She had never dreamed of having to meet the stare of the Sharingan unprotected. If she were going to be killed, this was definitely the moment. “You’re a conqueror, Madara,” she told him bravely, “not a politician. Waiting for scraps isn’t you. You need to take what you want, or die trying.” She pressed palms to his chest boldly, making her intentions known.

 _I’m a kunoichi. My body is just another weapon,_ she told herself. The oft-repeated mantra replayed in her head on top of it. _War is coming. War is_ always _coming._ Well, war would not come if Madara were dead, at least not in their lifetime. Reminding herself of that helped her stay strong in this moment.

His eyes didn’t follow but remained locked on hers. He grasped both of her wrists, crushing the small bones, halting her movements, dragging her hands slowly down. As he did so, he leaned forward, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him. He dragged her hands behind her back, then reversed them, pulling them up behind her shoulder blades, trapping her hands behind them. His feet shifted, bringing him closer. Uncomfortably close. His barrel chest pressed against hers, pressing her firmly against the wall and keeping her hands behind her back. She held her breath, snuffing the fear that was threatening to black her out. “This isn’t like you. You’re a noblewoman, a lady of the light.” His hand pressed to her face where he’d hit her, thumb running gently along the welt that was already forming there, almost a caress; almost, because Uchiha Madara was not capable-- _could not be_ capable--of a sentimental gesture like a caress. If she hadn’t known he was a murderer and a traitor and by extension a liar she might have thought he actually had feelings for her. “Why?”

She ran the line of her nose up his jawbone, felt him still. He smelled of wild things unexplored, she realized suddenly, feeling the dangerous twinge of attraction. Hashirama was a powerful man, but this man felt like aggression, a masculine presence that promised wicked things she could never imagine in her wildest dreams. “Every woman of the light,” she purred, “dreams of riding the feral winds of darkness.” This close, without his vile red eyes upon her, she could almost believe he was human, a man with fears, desires, and needs just like any other.

And as his lips fell upon hers with a barely restrained ferocity, she feared for the damnation of her soul. She returned the kiss with only a partially feigned hunger. Hashirama had never been rough with her. She understood, now, how some women made impulsive decisions to court the men who tended more toward the side of evil than good. There was something about being this close to someone this menacing that was enticing, a forbidden passion saved for only wanton women, unlike her.

A feral growl rumbled in his throat, and his face moved lower, to the hollow between her neck and shoulder, pushing the fabric out of the way. _Oh gods,_ she thought. _If this keeps up, I’ll be too far gone when he gets here._ The idea was to catch Madara in the act of forcing her, not to be caught up in the throes of passion. But to keep his actions criminal, she needed to keep him interested. She scratched at his armor. Without removing his face or acknowledging her in any way, he shrugged out of it and let it fall. His hands patted all across her body. It took her a minute to realize, though, that the patterns they made were searching for weapons, not groping. She chuckled. “Now you’re worried that I might be armed.”

“Shut up,” he growled. He gripped her thighs and jerked them upward, lifting her feet off the ground. _Oh no, oh no, oh no,_ she thought, feeling their bodies lock in place. She hadn’t thought that he’d move this fast, but she couldn’t deny him now. She’d come this far; backing out was not an option. She whimpered, and this time it wasn’t fake. He gripped her face roughly between calloused palms. They weren’t the smooth, soft hands of her husband. The brutal, crushing lips weren’t the gentle, loving touch of Hashi. _Oh gods, what have I done?_  she fretted. He should have been here by now. Her crushed hands had shifted when he’d grasped her legs, and now her shoulders were wrenched painfully behind her. _Too late. He’s going to be too late,_ she mourned. Her consciousness drifted away, separating itself from her body. Detachment, in preparation for what was to come, if her husband failed to rescue her in time.

“What is the meaning of this?” a third voice at last asked softly. Too softly. It was a tone she had never heard before, barely restrained menace masked in cool composure that threatened to snap at any moment. Violence uttered from the lips of love.

Madara took one step backward, and Mito fell in a crumpled heap upon the floor. Hastily, she moved to cover herself, looking away. The emotions that raged within her made it easy to look disoriented. She had not expected to feel anything for him, and that was a troubling revelation. Fear was a constant around him, as well. Besides that, this was the moment she had not looked forward to in laying her plans. And despite it all, she felt overwhelming relief that it was over.

* * *

“I’ll take the rest of the day off,” he said finally. “I’ll go deal with him, and then I’ll come right home, okay?”

“Okay,” she said weakly. I’ve won, she celebrated as he helped her up off the floor and led her to their bed. Soaking up his worry and knowing that Madara fumed somewhere in the Village Hidden in the Leaves made it all worth it.

“Do you need me to stay?” he asked with concern.

She shook her head and smiled to show she was fine. “I’ll be all right,” she assured. _I’ll be fantastic,_ she thought triumphantly.

* * *

Somewhere in her careful planning, she had miscalculated. He didn’t come home, not that night nor the next. It was probably by accident that she caught him when she did, passed out at his desk from exhaustion with his head upon his arm. The other arm lay outstretched, elbow locked uncomfortably. There was something in his grip. A note? She tried to get closer, to see it better. If she woke him, she might not have the chance.

When she was leaning precariously over his sleeping form, her heart sank from her chest to her toes. One worn and tattered orange-colored petal peeked out between his fingers. It was the saffron lily that she’d given Madara to lure him here.

Everything crashed into her with a crystal clear smack of sense.

She didn’t realize he’d woken until her eyes met his. They were empty, haunted. She’d hurt him; he likely believed that she had betrayed him, and not Madara. If he thought that, her whole plan was ruined, and feeling his vile paws on her breasts was for nothing. The nightmares meant nothing. She’d debased herself for nothing.

He waited expectantly. _Explain this, then_. But how was she supposed to explain that she’d only done it to plot his murder, to keep him from wearing the Hokage’s mantle and taking all of them to hell with him? He’d never believe her if she tried to tell him that she never meant to go through with it.

The time stretched, and still she provided no answer. So he sighed, tossed the error on the desktop, and left again. 

* * *

Hours later, she threw away the lily, and placed another message on the desktop in its place. If he’d understood the lily, he’d know this, too. It was a neat, tidy bundle of squill, watercress, venus hair, white lily and yew. It let her tell him the truth without telling too much. _I messed up and I’m sorry… forgive me. I’m innocent. There was a reason for it, but I can’t tell you. Our love is eternal. My fate is in your hands._ There was nothing left for her to do but to wait for him to receive it, and forgive her. It was a rare thing to admit guilt and innocence in the same sentence, but she figured it was appropriate. 

* * *

“How can I ever trust you again?” he asked her, trembling from the strain, tense with anger and frustration.

She opened her mouth to speak, to give him the carefully rehearsed apology and explanation that she had crafted, but the words that came out were entirely foreign. She'd only said them a few times. “I love you, Hashi,” she breathed, meaning it with every fragment of her existence. Their dreams were entwined, their love pure and glorious. She'd never thought in a lifetime that she'd ever meet anyone as wonderful as this man. She had almost lost him too many times already. This was never supposed to happen.

The rage slackened, but in its place came the tears. Men shouldn’t cry, she decided as her face hastened to match his. “I need you both,” he said brokenly. “I love you both, and I hate you both. The only thing I can do is condemn you both, or forgive you both. And damn it, Mito…” He crossed the space between them and enfolded her in his arms, holding her so tightly that her ribs felt crushed, but that was okay, too. Her heart rejoiced at this, for it felt as if it had been hugged, too. “These days have been the hardest days of my life. I’d rather face all the other clans together in battle alone and out of chakra than dread the sight of your face.”

Her marriage was saved, but only just barely. She would not risk that connection again.

* * *

Her mission had been a success. When Tobirama begged him to put the decision to a (carefully orchestrated by Mito and her shadow clan) vote, Hashirama became the Hokage. But for the ghost of Madara’s frenzied fingers and the phantom of sorrow in her husband’s face, Mito understood that all of them had changed. It scared her that both ghosts might never stop haunting her. _A Shinobi does not show emotion,_ she reminded herself. _And fear is one._

She penned a message to her co-conspirator and chose another flower: an apple blossom. _I yield precedence to you._  She wouldn't take herself completely out of the equation, not yet, but this latest stunt had been too close, and the cost would have been steep. Too steep. They simply _could not_ lose Hashirama. _She_ could not lose him. Her heart pounded when she considered how narrowly she'd escaped this one, even as she wondered if she were cut out for the life she had chosen at all. When the message had found the hands of its deliverer, though, she smiled with satisfaction and felt her confidence return. 

...

After all, she wasn't the one that needed to be feared.

 

**Author's Note:**

> We (Ishimaru_Asuka and I) are embroiled in a huge piece that won't be done for quite some time. This is a taste of that. I wrote it on the side instead of into the piece because the POVs are not appropriate for what we're doing. Nonetheless, it needed to be written and here it is. Also, it's slanted somewhat so that it can be read as a standalone, so it won't be QUITE identical to what appears in the main work. 
> 
> If you LIKE what you read here and want more, similar work, I encourage you to hit the "Subscribe" button above. It will alert you when more of my work is posted, and someday it will be related to this.


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